


you're in the car with a beautiful boy

by hellbeast



Series: you say you fly, but you never flew [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Barely Canon Compliant, Gen, I have like 30k of scattered sam-centric magical realism and absolutely nothing to tie them together, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23968807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbeast/pseuds/hellbeast
Summary: Sam whistles, a high and sharp note.Shark eyes immediately spins around and pops him one, right on the jaw. Fuckingow.“Shutup,” he spits, one hand holding the satellite phone to his chest. There’s a pin on his lapel, Sam notices. Hydra.Doesn’t matter, though, Sam thinks spitefully, rolling his jaw to dull the sting.The wind whistles back anyway.
Relationships: Sam Wilson & Steve Rogers
Series: you say you fly, but you never flew [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/418045
Kudos: 6





	you're in the car with a beautiful boy

Sam wakes up slowly and in pain, eyes shut against a throbbing temple and the brush of recycled air cool against his skin.

“He’s awake,” someone says mildly.

It wasn’t that Sam never expected this—coming to in a haze of pain and confusion, surrounded by unfamiliar voices—so much as it is that he didn’t expect it _now_. He’d thought that if it was ever going to happen, that it would’ve happened after his discharge. After Riley. But the years had come and gone, each passing day a weight on Sam’s heart, a pressure on his trigger-hair nerves, but no one had ever come.

Until now.

Now, of all times, which means that this probably isn’t even _about_ Sam.

Sam blinks, clenches his teeth and blinks again until the spots clear from his vision. Looks like a warehouse, high ceiling with windows up far above the line of sight. It’s either early or late enough that there’s only a little sunlight streaming in.

A hand grabs his chin, yanks his attention back down to the ground. Rude.

The hand belongs to a white guy, of the "burns instead of tans" variety, sallow skin and pale hair and eyes flat like a shark's. His skin is dry against Sam's, fingernails biting into Sam's jaw.

"Do you know why you're here?"

Eight windows, though two are boarded up. Light fixtures too far up to be of any use, but Sam takes count of all twelve anyway. Can't see the doors from where he is—tied to something, a pipe or a pole—but he can see the sleek wall of monitors and consoles, four screens and seven panels of buttons and switches. At least one guy, probably more.

Narrow fingers dig harsher into the underside of Sam's jaw, pressing tight until he hisses. Shark eyes leans in close and snarls: " _I am talking to you_."

Sam blinks, tries to look attentive while simultaneously projecting the thought _**'fuck you**_ ' into the ether as strongly as he can.

Shark eyes scoffs, and then _spits_. Sam tracks it, watches the glob of saliva hit his shoe and decides that the very first thing he’s going to do is drive Shark eyes’ nasal cavity into his brain. It takes everything he has to bite the inside of his cheek, hard, and keep his face blank. Shark eyes watches his face, his careful non-reaction, and scoffs again before turning away.

There’s a draft in the warehouse, blowing steady currents—Sam checks the windows again, settles tentatively on sunset—north-south. A draft means a cracked window, or an open door, or something. He can’t see it, but that hardly matters. Sam runs his tongue over his teeth, twisting his jaw and trying to get rid of the taste of stale, dead things.

Shark eyes is muttering something into a satellite phone, half turned away.

Sam whistles, a high and sharp note.

Shark eyes immediately spins around and pops him one, right on the jaw. Fucking _**ow**_.

“Shut _up_ ,” he spits, one hand holding the satellite phone to his chest. There’s a pin on his lapel, Sam notices. Hydra.

Doesn’t matter, though, Sam thinks spitefully, rolling his jaw to dull the sting.

The wind whistles back anyway.

* * *

Sam has been in love with Steve since that third on your left, if not a little later. He’s easy to love, is the thing. Steve had lapped Sam with a smirk in his voice, but Steve had also shrugged his broad shoulders and ducked his head to peer at Sam from under his lashes as he admitted that he didn’t know what made him happy. Steve made impassioned impromptu speeches and could pack away a week’s worth food in one sitting. The fact that Steve is in the habit of buying medium sized shirts when he knows damn well he’s not a medium is a bonus. Sam can readily admit that Steve’s a real good lookin’ guy.

Most kids in Sam’s generation grew up with a crush on at least one of the Howling Commandos, and even though Steve is no Gabe Jones, he and Sam have an unexpected synergy between them, the same kind that Sam and Riley had. A synchrony, falling into step with one another like they’ve been doing it their whole lives.

The point is, Steve is good people. The kind that Sam doesn’t mind following.

He’s also late.

Sam’s shoulders hurt, aching in a way that speaks of bruises to come, and his head is still throbbing. From the high windows of the warehouse, another shard of glass falls and shatters on the pavement. It’s a delicate sound, but it still makes Sam’s ears ring.

Sam is debating on whether or not it would be worth it to collapse when Steve (finally) shows up. It could honestly go either way: on the one hand, if he let himself fall to the ground, he’d take pressure off his leg and hip, which hurt like hell. On the other hand, if he lays down, he’s probably not getting back up anytime soon.

“Sam!” Steve calls, a rush of breath. “Are you alright?”

Pro: the ground is probably cold, and Sam’s bruised enough to hell and back that it would feel good. Con: the ground is covered in fragments of glass and God knows what else.

“Sam?” The high note of alarm in Steve’s voice snags Sam’s focus; that tremble and waver, on the cusp of panic, is too familiar not to pay attention to.

“I’m fine,” Sam answers, rote. Which, debatable.

“You're bleeding," Steve says in reply, eyes trained on Sam's face. Sam reaches up and prods tentatively with his fingers and yup, that's blood.

"Explains the dizziness," Sam mumbles, mostly to himself. Steve's expression is starting to look strained.

“I’ll _be_ fine,” Sam amends, _which_. Also debatable. He feels like shit.

“What _happened_?” Steve asks, leaning back to take in the full sight of the warehouse, which coincidentally looks like a storm ran through it. That’s not too far off the mark.

“Some guy, Hydra, I think,” Sam manages. His tongue is like an obstacle in his mouth, thick and cumbersome. “Stopped by for a chat.”

“But you’re okay?” Steve leans forward, hands reaching up to steady Sam, and oh, he’s shaking. Huh.

“M’alright,” Sam allows, and it’s still mostly a lie, but he _is_ upright, and his ears have even stopped ringing, so y’know, progress.

**Author's Note:**

> it's shelter in place quarantine hell and i'm going to upload every goddamn thing i've ever written


End file.
